


Tumblr Fic: Inception

by AlchemyAlice



Series: Fic Fragments of Doom [5]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Comment Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-07-25 11:23:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7530865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlchemyAlice/pseuds/AlchemyAlice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr fic rescued - Inception edition!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. at the continental

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In answer to mienuxbleu's prompt: Addy (John Wick) + Arthur (Inception). Rescued from tumblr.

It’s been a while since Arthur’s been here, but he figures they’ve probably loosened up a bit, since John tore through and Ms Perkins broke all the rules. Something like that happens, people start to reassess their principles. He’s counting on it. 

“What is this place?” Dom says, taking in the architecture. “It’s gorgeous, and I feel like I’ve never noticed it before.”

“You wouldn’t have. And it’s neutral ground. We’ll be reasonably safe here, at least for a while. Now, please be quiet, and don’t ask any questions until we get a room, okay?”

Dom raises an eyebrow, but nods.

Charon smiles courteously on their approach, looking like he hasn’t aged in about three decades. “Arthur. It’s been a long while, welcome back.”

“So it has,” Arthur replies, stepping up and reaching into his pocket. “Two nights, please.”

Charon raises an eyebrow, and taps the third coin in silent question. Arthur meets his gaze, and then tilts his head in Dom’s direction. 

“That’s not to regulation,” Charon points out. 

“No,” Arthur agrees. “But I understand you’re getting a little more discerning with your clientele. As it happens, a certain previous guest, who I’ve heard is no longer welcome here, holds the contract for my friend. Normally, I would have taken care of this much sooner, but I’ve had need to be…discreet.”

Charon gives him a withering look. “It does no good to keep these things from the people we care about,” he says. 

Arthur glares at him. He can feel Dom’s stare burning a hole in his jacket, and ignores it. “You’re not wrong,” he says. “And that’s why we’re here. I’m hoping to take care of what has now become a mutual problem, but I need an accommodating environment.” 

Charon sighs. “The name?”

“Avery.”

His lip curls. “Ah. In that case, you and your _friend_  are most welcome.” He slides the three coins off the counter, and replaces them with a key. “Room 1306.”

“Thank you.”

They head to the elevator. As soon as the doors slide shut, Dom turns and looks very intently at Arthur.

“I have several questions,” he says flatly.

Arthur sighs. “And I’ll answer them. But I’ve changed my mind; let’s drop our bags off, and then I’ll buy you a drink downstairs.”

“I’m only agreeing because I have a feeling I’ll need one.”

Arthur looks at the ceiling. “Same.”

***

The bar looks the same as always, dark and a little gaudy, the meeting of old school and new. Arthur cuts his way through to the bar, nodding at those he recognises, regardless of whether they’d tried to kill each other in the past or not. The Continental may be changing a little, but some things will always stay the same.

Addy’s at the bar when he reaches it, and her eyes light up. “Arthur, holy hell,” she breathes. “I thought you were out.”

“I am,” he says, smiling. “Just dabbling for a few days.”

“That seems to be a trend, jesus. You heard about John?” 

“Who hasn’t?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t believe Viggo’s fucking kid. Apple falls far from the tree.”

“Can say that again,” another patron mutters near Arthur’s shoulder. 

“What can I get you?” Addy asks. 

Arthur cuts a glance over to where Dom is cutting a rigid figure in one of the plush corner booths, the fine lines of his suit accenting the overly-square set of his shoulders as his eyes dart across the room, clearly drinking every detail in. In another ten minutes, Arthur has no doubt that he’ll be able to recreate this place in a dream. Arthur will probably have to actively discourage it. Though maybe not, considering Dom just jerked his head sharply to one side, clearly hearing a conversation he was not expecting to hear in public. 

“Haven’t seen him here before,” Addy says, following his gaze. “New to the business?”

“Not in it,” Arthur says sharply. Dom’s killed plenty in dreams, even carries the look of it in the real world now, but Arthur would hate to pull him over to his side for keeps. Dom’s lost enough already. Arthur softens his voice apologetically. “He’s not in the business. He’s my guest.”

Addy looks him over, and then blinks slowly. “He doesn’t know yet. What you do.”

“Used to do,” Arthur corrects, even though it’s weak.

“And you’re gonna tell him now, here of all places,” Addy rolls her eyes. “Arthur, don’t ever change. Hold on a sec.”

She turns and grabs from the top shelf a bottle of natural cask strength Caol Ila, and pours three separate drams. “This,” she says, raising the first glass, “Is for before you tell him. This,” she holds up the second, “Is for after. And the last one is for him, but _only_ if he takes it well, I don’t want him wasting it. Otherwise,” she reaches below the bar, and plonks down a full bottle of Johnny Walker Black, “He can suck it up and deal with this.”

“Addy,” Arthur leans across the bar and kisses her cheek, “You’re a star.”


	2. risks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mienuxbleu asked: Arthur/Cobb. Since you posted that clock pic, something steampunk?

“Cobb, I truly do not think this is a wise decision,” Arthur said. “The Empire–”

“The Empire’s reach is long,” Cobb interrupted, “But it is not without equal. Mr Saito is an influential man, and I believe he can deliver what he has promised.”

“Only if we are able to do the same,” Arthur said darkly.

“We are hardly in a position to negotiate,” Cobb reminded him.

Arthur exhaled. “You know I will do anything you ask of me,” he said finally.

Cobb looked at him. “I do know. And I know that I do not deserve it.” He touched Arthur’s wrist, and Arthur did not move. “Do you doubt that we can complete it? The inception?”

“You know as well as I,” Arthur said, after a pause. He could feel his pulse under Cobb’s fingers. “PASIV technology is stable, and our target’s occasional weakness for opium makes him an appealing target. But there are other concerns.”

He did not need to say what. Beautiful Mal, resplendent in her mourning dress, hand always tight around the sword cane she had always enjoyed brandishing in life. Neither airship nor winding maze of London back alleys had stopped her yet. 

“She will not be a problem,” Cobb said sharply. “She is nothing but a spectre.”

“All the worse for us,” Arthur replied, as gently as he could. 

Cobb did not answer. And if Arthur wished for the pressure of Cobb’s fingers to transform into a tender grip, he did not show it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Per mienuxbleu's request, more Arthur/Cobb

There is concrete where the elevator used to be. 

That’s what Arthur first notices–it looks unnerving on the beach, all crenelated surfaces, so jarringly immune to the crashing of waves. It’s all crooked too, not so much a building as a sculpture, a shard of art reaching up crookedly to the sky. 

Arthur can’t help himself, he never can–he walks closer, shoes crunching over sea glass. The sculpture rises up in front of him, almost offensive–Cobb had never been a great supporter of brutalism, he preferred the warmth of hardwood and aesthetic pleasure of fin-de-siecle Paris. Even that rickety elevator had been old brass, gone black with oxidation–a prison, but a beautiful one. 

(Arthur had only gone down there once, before. Once had been enough.)

And now it was gone. Or rather, mostly gone–as he gets closer, Arthur spots the wreckage of it, between the pieces of concrete. And the concrete begins to take a purposeful shape, too, despite its angular construction. 

The elevator is in pieces. The concrete stands in the tortured shape of outstretched wings.

“It’s a _spomenik.”_

Arthur startles. Turns on his heel. Cobb is standing a few feet away, looking at the wings. Arthur looks at him, takes in his appearance out of habit and out of need, because he’s never been able to not look. Cobb is wearing a linen shirt and khakis. His hair is unstyled.

He looks like a father. (He looks like he doesn’t need Arthur.) 

“Spomenik?” Arthur repeats. “A memorial.”

“In the tradition of those built in Yugoslavia,” Cobb replies, walking forward a few paces. “To commemorate lives lost in World War II. It seemed appropriate.”

Arthur can’t disagree. They’d fought a war for Cobb’s mind, and for his family. 

“Wings for Mal?” he says, because he has a habit of rubbing salt in his own wounds. 

Cobb tilts his head from side to side. “Depends on how you look at it,” he says finally. “Come over here.”

Arthur comes over, and slides up beside Cobb, a respectable foot or so away. “No, here,” Cobb says, reaching out, and pulling Arthur to stand just in front of him. Arthur can feel Cobb’s body heat against his back. “Now look,” Cobb instructs.

Arthur looks. Arthur sees.

The wings…aren’t really wings. Or rather, they could be, but they’re wider at the base than he could tell from the other angle, and from where he stands now, they look like sheets of metal crumpling under unimaginable force, like a giant had gripped them and pulled them away from each other. 

“Wings for Mal,” Cobb says. “A warning for me. I will never tear my family apart again. I’m learning from my mistakes this time." 

And the thing is, Arthur would never have believed him, up there. But down here? There’s no question. 

"What’re you doing in my head, anyway?” Cobb says, his lips close to Arthur’s ear. “I haven’t been near a PASIV in two years. Why’d you hook me up to one now?”

“To see this,” Arthur says honestly. He turns, but doesn’t step away, leaving them close enough to touch. Cobb waits, eyes shuttered. Arthur looks at him. 

“You’ve been looking for me,” he says. 

“Occasionally,” Cobb admits. “And not hard. I can take a hint." 

Arthur leans up, to speak against Cobb’s ear.

"When you wake up, I might just tell you how to find me,” he says. He feels Cobb’s breath stutter against his cheek. He pulls away.

“It might even be some place family friendly.”

Cobb stares at him, a smile beginning on his face. “Please,” he says. “They’d like to see you. And so would I. Arthur–”

“Yeah,” Arthur nods. “I’ll see you later.”

Minutes (seconds) later, he’s slipping out of the towncar where Cobb still sleeps in the back seat. He leaves behind a phone number, tucked safely in the lax folds of Cobb’s fingers.


	4. resurfacing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur is comatose, and Dom is brought in.

“We should tell him.”  
  
Eames raised an eyebrow. “Why? He practically ordered us not to come near him for fear our terrible criminality may once again contaminate his family.”  
  
“This is the third time he’s done this,” Ariadne hissed. She looked up as Yusuf came down the hall, balancing Styrofoam cups of coffee in his hands. “Back me up here, Yusuf.”  
  
“Listen to Ariadne,” he said, distributing cups before looking at her, “Now, why are we listening to you?”  
  
“Because we can’t afford Arthur’s hospital bills,” Ariadne said.  
  
“Technically, Saito—“  
  
“Hush, Eames. Missing the point. Arthur’s hurting himself. It’s not all right anymore.”  
  
“He’s doing his job,” Eames said, grimacing at the coffee. “He’s a point man. It’s a dangerous role to play, but one that Arthur, though I’m loathe to admit it, does exceedingly well. This is just part of the deal.”  
  
Ariadne shook her head. “He’s taking risks that he doesn’t have to.”  
  
A nurse approached them from down the corridor. “He’s stable,” she said. “But we’d like to keep him here for several days under observation.”  
  
“Is that safe?” Ariadne muttered.  
  
“It’ll have to be,” Yusuf sighed.   
  
Eames smiled assurance at the nurse and thanked her. He regarded Ariadne. “Look, I realize you’re relatively new to this job, but—“  
  
“Don’t patronize me, Eames,” she snapped. “I’m new, but I know that Arthur’s never been like this. He’s changed since the incep—“  
  
“Let’s not drop that term in public, shall we?” Yusuf interrupted. He glanced over at Eames. “You’ve worked with Arthur before. Is this normal? And don’t just say yes; actually think about it.”  
  
At that, Eames fidgeted for a moment, and then said, “I’ve seen him be more careful. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”  
  
“I’m calling Cobb,” Ariadne said. “He doesn’t have to come if he doesn’t want to. I just think he should know. He might be able to tell us if there’s something about Arthur we should know.”  
  
*  
  
Cobb came. He didn’t say anything to the team, though–just nodded at Ariadne on his way in, and shrugged off Yusuf despite the fact that he was carrying with him a familiar silver briefcase.  
  
“Where the fuck did he get that?” Eames muttered.  
  
“We probably don’t want to know,” Ariadne said darkly.  
  
*  
  
The dreamscape was all forest, endless and dark in the moonscape, twisted branches and gnarled roots sinking into fetid moss, the green of it wet and grainy, like quicksand.  
  
Arthur stood in the middle of it, and he was talking to Cobb.  
  
Cobb leaned his weight against the damp trunk of an ancient tree, and watched them.  
  
“I wish you’d stay,” Cobb said.  
  
“You know I can’t,” Arthur said. “They need me.”  
  
“Do they?” Cobb cocked his head. “In the end, do they need me as much as I do?”  
  
Arthur swayed, like he wanted to agree, but couldn’t.  
  
“Please, Arthur,” Cobb said, and grasped Arthur’s wrist.  
  
Cobb swallowed down bile. He’d had enough.  
  
He folded out from the protection of the tree, drawing his gun as he did.  
  
Cobb was quicker. He aimed for Arthur’s gut, and disappeared into the trees.  
  
Arthur’s knees hit the moss, followed by his hip. Cobb caught his shoulders, cradled his head before it did, too.   
  
“Cobb?” Arthur said, scratchy and harsh.   
  
“Yeah,” Cobb answered through gritted teeth. “And no, not your friend Cobb from back there.”  
  
“No,” Arthur agreed. “You’re a lot nicer sometimes, I gotta admit. Not saying much,” he coughed wetly, “But still.”  
  
“Is that why you’re doing this?” Cobb demanded. “Is this why you’re hurting yourself? To see him again?”  
  
“S'not like  _you_  come when I call,” Arthur wheezed, and it sounded a little like laughter. “You know how much I appreciate reliability.”  
  
Cobb made an awful sound, deep in his throat.  
  
“You don’t get to do this,” he hissed into Arthur’s temple. “We are talking about this when we get out.”  
  
Arthur’s bloodied head lolled. Cobb held Arthur tighter as he drew a thin dagger from the inside of his jacket, before slipping it up under Arthur’s ribs, far enough to stop his heart.   
  
It went through Arthur’s lung like butter.  
  
They had a great deal to talk about once they got back to the surface.


	5. job interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for "Arthur/Eames", "If that's your best, then your best won't do", and then I 100% ignored that quote, womp womp

“So,” Arthur says, sitting back in the aluminium chair as if it was a CEO’s giant leather monstrosity instead. “I’ve been told that your specialty is forgery.”

Eames’s smile is bland in response. “I think you’ll find that it’s not me that claims it to be my specialty,” he replies. “It’s everyone else.”

Arthur’s gaze sharpens slightly, but he doesn’t move. Eames takes a moment (but just a moment, less than, really) to appreciate the control. “Right,” Arthur says, “Let’s see it, then.”

Eames opens his hands. “Hook me up.”

This time, it’s Arthur that assumes the bland smile. He’s still for a beat, eyes going unfocused for just a half-second, and then his red striped tie  shifts to blue checkers.

Eames can’t help it, he laughs. “Oh, very good,” he says, a little delightedly. He stands up from his chair, and the room that they’re in dilates, black and white tiles elongating like a funhouse mirror reflection. Arthur is farther and farther away.

Eames just uses it to saunter forward, hands in his pockets, but he squares his shoulders as he walks, lengthens the line of his neck, assumes thinness and neatness and clean lines. 

“You have an excellent architect, I’ll give you that,” he says, listening to his voice and adjusting as he goes. “And I like the confrontational approach, it’s fresh without being overly dramatic.”

“You’re overly florid,” Arthur replies, unmoving.

“Mm,” Arthur agrees. “You’re right.” He takes the last couple of steps forward, and then straddles Arthur’s lap, Italian leather clicking on the tile.

“I’m not a narcissist, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says. 

“And yet,” Eames-Arthur observes, “You haven’t pushed me off yet.”

“Well,” Arthur replies, hands coming to rest feather-light on Eames’s hips, “I must admit being impressed by your attention to detail.”


End file.
